


What Sunrise Uncovers

by salakavala



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9694961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala
Summary: Dorian's got a secret, and the Bull likes to know things - he's good at that.Problem is, what he's never been good at is knowing and not caring.





	1. The Hinterlands

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the story where nothing much happens and every chapter is an excuse to write way too much unnecessary dialogue!

When Dorian questions the sleeping arrangements, the Bull interprets it as Dorian having a problem with him, specifically. It's the first time Cadash has taken Dorian along to an expedition, and when they reach the Inquisition's forward camp in the Hinterlands on their first night, Cadash wastes no time to pair up the Bull with Dorian, and Blackwall with himself, each to share a tent. He always decides the sleeping arrangements, a persistent habit of paranoia from his times in the Carta, but they've travelled with him enough to expect it.

All but one of them.

“What do you mean,” asks Dorian, “ _Share a tent?_ ”

He directs his question to Cadash, but Blackwall rises immediately to the chance to get back at him, in continuation to their earlier argument on the road. “What, the idea of sharing too off-putting to the pampered altus?”

The Bull takes a sideways glance at Dorian. He doesn't look particularly put off, only perplexed.

“I mean exactly what I said,” Cadash snaps gruffly in response to Dorian, undoing his belt with poisons and ignoring Blackwall. He tosses the belt to the ground beside the fire so that the flasks clink and jingle in their separate pockets and turns fully to the 'Vint. “There a problem?”

Their journey to the Hinterlands was exceptionally boring – they only had to fight one bear, and even that was just because Cadash threw one of Sera's bee grenades at it to unwind a bit. He's been like that the whole day, ever since his argument with the Seeker in Skyhold that morning, and it's kept them all on their toes. Even the requisition officer changed her course when she saw Cadash's set jaw and angry strides as they approached the camp.

So even if Dorian does have a problem, he's not fool enough to say it. “No,” he answers curtly, throwing a quick glance at the Bull, and goes to sit by the fire to clean the bear's blood off his staff blade.

None of them speaks much when they eat. Cadash looks like he's having a bitter debate with his broth, Dorian's all shuttered up and doesn't complain about the food, and Blackwall stares into the fire, still prickly about the boss' earlier remarks about the Wardens cooperating with Corypheus. It's not a well-chosen team; Dorian and Blackwall clash even worse than Dorian attempts to clash with the Bull, and Blackwall's been broodier than usual after Hawke told them of his suspicions concerning the Wardens. Cadash himself, while usually a pretty fun guy in his own way, has closed off like he always does after a spat with the Seeker. He admires the woman, but her faith in him has begun pulling all his wrong levers, which has increased the amount of arguments they have and cut Cadash's already thin patience in half. The Bull's pretty good in any kind of team, but the underlying tensions can't not affect even an easygoing guy like him. The team spirit's missing, and there's no real trust between them, so unless Cadash manages to sleep off his grumpiness, they might have a problem.

On the other hand, Cadash comes from a background where good team spirit's reserved for kids' tales. From what the Bull's gathered, in the Carta you do your part, nothing more, nothing less, and you get paid. Anything funny, and you'll be cut down swiftly and quietly. That in mind, the Bull's not sure what Cassandra and Leliana were thinking when they names Cadash the Inquisitor. Sure, the guy can close rifts and is deadly in a fight, but he's not a leader, doesn't want to be a leader, and doesn't care to be the public face of the only organization that might be the one real barricade between Corypheus and his success. Josephine hasn't got it easy.

But it's not the Bull's place to criticize – he's in the Inquisition to serve. _Asit tal-eb;_ it is to be.

The scouts take care of the watches that night, so Cadash stalks off to his tent as soon as he's finished with his meal. Blackwall follows him soon after, and even without trying to listen in, the Bull hears him bring up the Wardens again. Shit, sometimes the guy just doesn't know when to let things lie for a bit.

Dorian picks up his staff and stands up, too. “Well. I shall withdraw as well.” He hesitates a moment, like he doesn't know how to proceed. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he expects the Bull to jump up and tuck him in. Or, more likely, to chop his head off, by the look of his forcibly languid smile.

The Bull decides to be merciful and remains seated by the fire. He was the first to finish his meal – he always eats with the efficiency he learnt on Seheron – so he's been honing his axe for a good while now. “You do that,” he tells Dorian. “I'll finish here first.”

Dorian goes, and the Bull continues his task. His axe's in a good shape and doesn't require any particular care at the moment, but it's something to do with his hands, and a believable excuse to give Dorian some time to settle in their tent without him realising that that time is given to him on purpose. The Bull can't say he's got Dorian figured out yet, but he seems the kind of guy who likes his privacy, and who likes his pride; he probably wouldn't take it well to discover being coddled. Not that there's reason to coddle Dorian. The Bull's got to admit that he's a powerful mage, if a little inefficient in a fight, but the thing is, there's no reason to purposefully cause him uneasiness, either. They are in the same team, so everyone should be able to trust each other enough to not fear getting strangled in sleep.

He'd like to, though. Figure Dorian out. He probably wouldn't be of much significance to the Qun, but considering he's been meddling with time magic, it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on him – and it's not like he's hard to look at. Besides, there's clearly the person Dorian wants them all to see, and then the person whom he hides behind the façade, and yeah, the Bull's always liked getting to the bottom of people.

Dorian's all fancy words and bluster, and, if looked at once, he seems to be what Blackwall called him earlier that day: a pompous, spoilt brat. The Bull's looked more than once, though. Yeah, Dorian's still pompous, and spoilt, but he's made a mantle of those qualities and wrapped it so tight around himself that it's pretty obvious he's hiding something. Nothing harmful to the Inquisition, necessarily, he seems to genuinely believe in their cause, but something more akin to uncertainty. People in Skyhold treat Dorian from wary to hostile – something that Dorian, frankly, makes easy for them – so he treats any offered act of friendliness with suspicion.

Which is why the Bull makes sure his axe is needlessly shiny before finally stalking to their shared tent. Dorian's in his bedroll already, wrapped in his blanket up to his moustache. He glances at the Bull when he enters, and apparently tries very hard to look comfortable.

“Relax, mage boy,” the Bull huffs and sets his axe down beside his own bedroll.

“How anyone can relax in this ice field is far beyond me,” Dorian retorts. It was probably meant to come out edgily, but a good chunk of that is lost in the way Dorian peeks out from underneath his blanket. He looks funny, and a bit cute, like a cocoon.

The Bull settles down and wiggles his eyebrow, because, aww, why not? “I know a way to make you both relaxed _and_ warm.” He lifts the corner of his own blanket invitingly.

“I'm sure I never expected to end up sharing a tent with a qunari spy in the most miserable part of the Hinterlands when I decided to join the Inquisition. The Makes must have an exceptionally twisted sense of humour.”

Dorian keeps attempting making this point of how he and the Bull are some sort of natural enemies, but the Bull's pretty lenient a guy. He's got no problems sharing with a 'Vint, and Dorian, for all his faults, doesn't strike him a truly bad guy. The Bull's not going to start treating him like one just because he expects it.

So he shrugs and gets under the covers. “Your loss. The invitation stands, though.”

“How blessed am I,” Dorian mutters into his cocoon, and the Bull grins and sets for sleep.

Or tries to. Because _apparently_ Dorian keeps trying to, too, and is so intent on falling asleep that it fills the entire tent. Dorian keeps turning around – from side to stomach, from stomach to back, then to stomach again – and while he keeps it quiet, the Bull recognises it as the kind of fidgeting people do when they purposefully strain to stifle all sounds. It's not the sound of it that bothers the Bull, but the palpable restlessness that fills the whole fucking tent.

Dorian's asked the Bull about getting a knife in his back a time or two, but the Bull figured he wasn't really expecting them. But shit, maybe he is, if he can't even sleep in the same tent with a qunari. If that's the case, it's going to be a problem. It _is_ a problem.

At some point Dorian apparently realises that the Bull's still awake, too, because he stills and slowly evens his breathing. It's not a bad act, precisely, but the Bull can practically feel how he strains to keep still, and, all right, he pities the guy. If it's the Bull's awareness that bothers Dorian, the Bull can help with that. He gives it some time, and begins gradually slowing his own breathing, and lets his muscles relax with every exhale, guiding his mind into a meditative state. That's the trick with feigning sleep; if your mind isn't in it, you're not going to fool anyone. Not a Ben-Hassrath, anyhow.

Dorian's not a Ben-Hassrath, and he buys the Bull's act eventually. He releases a long breath, which confirms that it was the Bulls presence that was getting to him, and shifts again. The Bull hears a whispered curse, some more shuffling around, and Dorian quietly crawls out of their tent.

With Dorian gone, the air in the tent falls truly calm. Still, the Bull stays awake for some time, and even contemplates checking on the 'Vint when he doesn't return. Better not, though. If Dorian's got issues with him, following him into the night would hardly help, and besides, he needs to process some of his shit on his own. Now's not the time for the Bull to interfere.

Dorian's still not returned when the Bull falls asleep.

xXx

It's not really about the Bull, though. At least not specifically restrained to him. Dorian keeps sneaking out of tents not depending on with whom he shares.

The Bull's not keeping his eye on Dorian's sleeping habits in particular, but when you spend a few nights on the road with a small group, you're bound to start noticing things. Cadash rotates the pairs every night to keep them from teaming up behind his back, and when the Bull gets the first watch on their second night, he catches Dorian crawling out of the tent he shares with the boss.

“Nature calls, as Southerners so charmingly put it,” he explains, but he surely takes much longer than any healthy call of nature should; he returns only when the Bull's watch is already ending. He's definitely up to something, but long as he doesn't work any trouble, it's not really the Bull's business.

On the third night Dorian shares with the Bull again – Cadash's smart enough to pair him up with Blackwall. Blackwall's got the first watch, and Dorian the second, so he doesn't even bother getting into their tent for longer than it takes to spread his bedroll. “I need to be up I two hours anyway,” he says with a shrug when Blackwall asks him about it. Glances at the Bull, too, maybe to make sure he heard; they haven't talked about Dorian's nightly walks or whatever they are, but Dorian must be aware that the Bull's marked them.

It's not his business, the Bull has to remind himself when he's lying alone in their tent. But he'd like to know, anyway.

It becomes his business on the next day. They finally find the bandit stronghold that they've been looking for, and they set to root out the thugs. It begins pretty well – the Bull and Blackwall charge upfront, capturing the enemy's attention, while Cadash does his thing where he blends with the shadows and creeps behind the enemy's back, stabbing the bastards in the slits in their armours with his poisoned blades. He's a nasty fighter, would've done well with the Fog Warriors on Seheron, and the Bull takes a moment to appreciate that they're fighting on the same side when yet another archer, spitting blood with a knife in his hip, stumbles under his axe. Dorian mostly keeps his distance and provides barriers for the rest of them and lightning and flames for the bandits. It works for all of them. They advance the stronghold one bandit at a time, until they reach the uppermost level, where they find the leader of the lot. He's a tough bastard, and wouldn't be a problem to the four of them if he hadn't an archer and a swordsman for backup, with the advance of being rested.

Cadash swears loudly and jumps at the archer, but the swordsman goes smartly straight for Dorian. The brutish leader demands both Blackwall and the Bull's attention, but he's not worried for Dorian; the guy can pull his weight in a fight and then some. From the corner of his eye he sees Dorian do the thing where he pushes enemies back on their asses with the sheer force of his mind – and yeah, _that's_ pretty damn impressive, and a useful trick for a mage besides – he's seen Dorian knock down near a dozen men in one go with it.

Which is why it's a surprise when the attacking swordsman only stumbles a little and continues his assault. Dorian barely manages to raise a barrier before a sword connects with his shoulder.

“Shit!” the Bull hears Cadash yell, but the bandit leader swings his maul and the Bull's got to return his full attention on his own fight.

The maul misses him, but collides with Blackwall's shield with full force. The impact throws Blackwall down on his back, but also unbalances the bandit, and the Bull gets to bury his axe in the back of the man's knee. The bandit falls on one knee with a roar, and the Bull haves his axe up again, but Cadash materializes right in front of the bandit and simply thrusts his dagger though the eye-slit of his helmet. The man hovers a little, as if not realising that he's dead already, and slumps forward, almost on top of Blackwall, who's still scrambling up from the floor. His shield arm hangs awkwardly; meeting the bandit's hit must've dislocated his shoulder.

The Bull sweeps the level with swift precision as he catches his breath. The archer – dead in the corner, face-down on the tiles. The leader – at their feet, also face-down. Cadash pulling Blackwall up. Dorian lingering by the ladder, bleeding from his arm but standing on his own feet. There's no body of the swordsman who attacked him.

Blackwall groans as he unstraps his shield, and Cadash crouches beside him. “Broken?” he asks, and adds, without waiting for an answer, “You're going to have fun climbing down those ladders.”

“I'll manage,” Blackwall grunts.

“We're going to have to push the shoulder back in,” the Bull points out.

“Let's get it over with,” Cadash mutters, and dismisses the Bull's offered help with a grunt and an impatient wave of his hand.

So the Bull goes to Dorian, who's trying to bandage his own arm with a piece of clothing and generally doing a bad job with it.

“Need a hand?” the Bull asks him and takes a look at the wound. It's not deep, only a shallow slash; Dorian's barrier probably absorbed most of the damage.

He half expects Dorian to decline, but the mage haves an expressive sigh and winces a little. “I'd be much obliged.”

The Bull takes the rug from Dorian – it's some sort scarf that Dorian looted from the bandits earlier – and sets to work. It won't make a pretty or a comfortable bandage, but it'll serve until they reach a proper healer in one of the main camps. “So,” he says conversationally while he works, “That mind-pushing trick of yours didn't work that well this time?”

Dorian winces again, either from the pressure the Bull's applying to his wound, or the exasperation that the Bull saw him failing in the battle. “Not that well, no.”

“How's that?”

“Here to interrogate me, Iron Bull? And here I thought you simply cared.”

The guy certainly knows how to pull an airy façade, the Bull will give him that. He tucks the ends of the makeshift bandage in and reflexively pats Dorian's arm. “You doing all right, Dorian?”

“It's not a lethal wound, as I'm sure you can observe.”

The Bull ignores the statement. “Usually your mind trick throws people to the ground.”

“My _mind trick_ , as you so generously call it, has certain requirements, all of which were not entirely met in this battle.”

“That's what I'm asking. You doing all right?”

Dorian throws a look at him, a small frown, more thoughtful than exasperated, like he's trying to figure him out. “I'm fine,” he says at length, and the Bull takes it as Dorian means it – an empty reassurance to get the Bull off his back.

Like that'd work. Since Dorian's not going to say anything, the Bull's got to bring it up. “Listen, big guy,” he says, keeps his tone casual to not intimidate too much, but holds Dorian's eyes to show that he means business. It doesn't take Ben-Hassrath education or a decade on Seheron to know that a mage's strength is determined by the strength of their mind, and the strength of mind is affected by rest. That's how the Bull learnt it: to break a _bas saarebas_ , you've got to break their mind, and you start breaking their mind by depriving them of sleep. And whatever Dorian's up to when he sneaks out at night, it's definitely not sleep.

“It's not my business how you spend your nights, but the boss's got to be able to trust you with his back in a fight. Take care of yourself, is all I'm saying.”

Dorian's face _changes_ , hardens a bit like Dalish's when she conjures that stone armour barrier thing the Bull's seen used mostly by elven mages. Words are weapons in Tevinter, and apparently Dorian took the Bull's as a personal attack. Good. It's not what the Bull meant, but Dorian's got to understand that whatever his issues are, they aren't his issues only if they endanger the team. There are lives at stake, and whatever Dorian's up to during his nights can't interfere with the bigger picture.

“I thank you for your concern,” Dorian says icily, “but I assure you, it's quite unnecessary. I know well enough to take care of myself without a Ben-Hassrath telling me so, thank you.”

The Bull raises his palms. “Hey, not saying you don't.”

“We're done here,” Cadash announces behind the Bull's back. “Get your shit and stuff, we're heading back to camp.”

When they climb down the ladder, they pass a dead body with a cracked head sprawled in a pool of blood on the tiles at the bottom. So, that's where Dorian's swordsman went.

X

 


	2. Crestwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely response with all the comments and kudos! Also, I dare you try to type 'dam control' multiple times without making it 'damn control' instead.

It's that one comment Dorian makes in Crestwood that triggers the conversation that makes the Bull understand.

They've cleared the stronghold of the occupying bandits – and it's places like these that show how chaotic and uncontrolled the South is even without holes in the sky: bandits fester under every rock they turn, and for all the arls, banns, and kings of Ferelden, no one lifts a finger to keep the outlaws in control and the people safe. Maybe the Qun's not perfect, but at least it takes care of its own and provides a structure that _works_. Here, it falls on anyone strong enough to root the menace, or become the menace. Not that there's reason to complain – it's what keeps money flowing for the Chargers, and a day spent hacking enemies is a _good_ day. Even in Crestwood, where the rain's colder than on Storm Coast and the enemies happen to be mostly demons and undead.

Cadash's in a good mood too, probably mostly because this time they've got Cassandra with them instead of Blackwall. Works way better for the team spirit, but that Cadash chose to to leave their Warden behind when they went looking for Wardens wedged the already brittle trust between the two of them. “Not gonna have him at my back if Corypheus can control them,” the boss said when the Bull asked him about it before leaving Skyhold. “And even if he couldn't, how rational you think will Blackwall be if shit goes down? Why, had so much fun in the blighted Hinterlands that you asking after him now?”

Not that Cassandra's exactly a merrymaker herself, but she's tough, she's hot, she's fun in her way, and she keeps the boss in a good mood, so long as she's not talking Andraste at him. So no, the Bull's not complaining.

Cassandra's also one of the few inner circle members who more or less get along with Dorian. Which is good, because apparently Cadash considers Dorian the most tolerable of their resident mages, and he's becoming a fixed figure in their expeditions. The Bull's not complaining about that, either; after the trip to the Hinterlands he's made an effort to make nice with the 'Vint, a goal much easier accomplished in a tavern with a good stock of alcohol than in some crappy abandoned stronghold. Turned out Dorian's not that bad when he relaxes a little and admits that maybe the Bull's not going to turn on a bloody rampage on him. There are cracks in his barrier, and yeah, that's something to work with.

Initially the Bull thought he'd have plenty of time working with it on the road, but that was before Harding briefed them about the bandits, the undead, the demons, and the under-lake rift they are currently trying to find a way to.

“I'm just saying,” Dorian is saying, “that after a while this all gets very suspicious. The rift just happens to be on the bottom of the lake? Why, then you must simply drain the lake, and would you look at that, to do that you only have to rid the stronghold of the band of bandits, who, coincidentally, are pestering the neighbourhood!”

Cadash snorts into his beard and glances back at Dorian in a way that's not murderous, so it's probably amused. “Take a breath, mage. You gonna choke on your own words.”

“Have no fear of that, Inquisitor. It takes something much more substantial to choke me than mere words, my own no less.” At this, he glances at the Bull, in a way he wouldn't have a few weeks ago. Certainly hadn't in the Hinterlands. The Bull stretches his neck just for the show, and by the way Dorian rolls his eyes he can tell the show was received. Probably appreciated, too.

“Speaking of, what _would_ shut you up? I'm asking for a friend.”

“Oh? Attempting humour, Inquisitor?” For a guy who hates rain and cold, and who's spent the last three nights huddled in a damp blanket (and still refusing to join the Bull under his), Dorian's oddly cheerful as they trudge towards the abandoned tavern. Or then he's just blowing off his frustrations through talking. He seems to do that a lot, talking to get his mind off what's got under his skin.

Cadash snorts. “Me? I hate humour. No, it's a conversation we actually had with Cassandra last night.”

Behind them, Cassandra makes that noise that usually tells people to cut their bullshit. The boss though, he's spent enough time with her to have developed an immunity against it, because he only grins, and Dorian probably just lack a certain level of self-preservation.

He laughs, a sight that the Bull's begun seeing only recently. Which is a pity, because it's a damn good one. “In that case! Only brute force, I'm afraid.”

“I will keep that in mind. Now could we focus on the task ahead?” Cassandra grunts. Of the four of them, she's the one who seems to be having the least amount of fun. Wet clothes and heavy armour can't mix well, but there's also lots of bottled frustration in her; her jaw is tense, and she's trekking down the rocky slope like she'd like to smash the dam herself with a well-thrown punch. Could probably do it, too. If Cassandra had been born under the Qun, there'd be no talk of the waves slowly wearing the rocks, and Seheron would've been taken under control overnight.

“As the lady commands,” Cadash says in that pretentious tone that he picked from Blackwall when the man was speaking to Josephine. The same tone that the Seeker despises with her heart, unless it's just the 'lady' that gets to her. If it's the latter, the Bull can understand it; honestly, he sometimes forgets that she's a woman, too.

“To return to the previous topic,” Dorian begins when they reach the tavern door and the boss gets on his knees to pick the lock, “I have a theory: the rifts are prone to appear on the areas where people's distress is thickest. Perhaps it somehow pulls on the Veil, because it's _never_ just closing the rift. For instance -”

“Dorian. Shut up.”

Surprisingly, Dorian does; it's always an even chance with him. He makes sure to look affronted, but he knows that the boss is like that to everyone. To some more than to the others, for sure, but some of them talk more than the others, so.

Cadash pushes the door open and unsheaths his daggers carefully. He mutters something nearly inaudible, and enters the short corridor that opens into a larger space before the Bull can ask about it, so they all just follow suit.

The Bull, who's next after Cadash, barely manages to take one step before the boss whirls around with an angry frown. He's got pretty good eyebrows for frowning; they give his glare some credibility.

“Fuck, people, I said _hold_ , what's there not to get?” he hisses at them.

“Uh, sorry, boss. Didn't hear you.”

“You think it easy to stay unnoticed when a horde of armoured idiots follows at your heels? Didn't hear me my ass, like this the first time it happens!”

“Apologies, Inquisitor,” Cassandra says stiffly, trying to keep her tone down.

“You do realise it's sometimes very hard to hear you when you mumble into your beard, right?” Dorian quips quietly, all the more satisfied because Cadash does know that – it's one his habits. Which makes Dorian right, which makes Dorian happy, which makes Dorian smirk in a way that's kind of nice to look at.

A giggle sounding from the tavern disrupts the moment, which is good, because Cadash hates to be proven wrong as much as Dorian likes being right. He waves an exasperated hand at them. “Quiet,” he mouths, and they barge into the common room.

It's not bandits, though. It's two kids on a rug in front of a fireplace, holding hands and whispering to one another. Well, until an angry dwarf, a qunari, a steely warrior, and a mage jump from behind a corner.

“What in – ah!” the girl cries out and instinctively jerks away from the guy.

The Bull's shoulders relax as he scans the room and detects no sing of hiding bandits. A harmless tumble then, nothing more.

“Never mind us, just passing by,” Dorian says from behind the Bull. He's got an amused smile on his face when the Bull turns to look, amused and… something else, too. Nostalgic?

Cadash stares at the couple for a moment, then spits on the floor and sheaths his daggers. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“We were just – please don't tell anyone!” the girls pleads. The guy beside her looks like they're going to behead him right there. “My father hates him, and -”

“I said sod off.”

“Return home,” Cassandra interjects. “It's not safe here.”

The kids run off, and the Bull straps his axe on his back again with a huff. “Those two sneaked past the bandit stronghold to get some one-on-one time? No wonder we run into so many random corpses all the time if people pull this kind of shit when there are, you know, _actual corpses_ crawling all over the place.”

“Don't be so quick to judge,” Dorian tuts. “I readily admit that demons and the undead add a little something to a secret rendezvous, but at their age the excitement is worth braving quite a lot more. Perhaps you don't understand it, being qunari and all, but imagine, I don't know, whatever gets you going, a dragon possibly, and a bridge of demons separating you from it. I readily bet all my money on you deciding to risk it anyway.”

Dorian's smiling when the Bull looks at him, but there's something different about it – the smile's a little soft at the edges, and the corners of his eyes are a little creased, something that the Bull's rarely seen outside Herald's Rest and never without a few ales. He opens his mouth to ask -

But Cadash, clearly uninterested, beats him to it. “Yeah, whatever. Cass, take a look around for that sodding dam control. I'll see if there's anything useful here.”

“The bandits probably carried anything drinkable to the keep,” Cassandra utters dryly.

“Shit, you're right.”

In the end, the boss and the Seeker go looking for the dam control, and Dorian and Bull head upstairs to see if there's anything worth finding there, notes, coins, or rare bottles.

“Speaking from a personal experience down there, huh? About secret meetings.” the Bull asks, when they've dutifully checked that the barrels are indeed empty and no notes of importance lie around. He tugs at his wet pants – they cling to his skin annoyingly, and his boots squish at every step with absorbed water.

Dorian raises his eyes at him from a crumpled, damp piece of paper he's found under the table. “Hm? Oh, naturally. Granted, the Circles back home – and this might surprise you – never did have the problem of demons roaming around, and any corpses even in the filthiest alleys were swiftly collected away, so it wasn't quite as exciting as here.” He smiles, and there's that softness again, but it's not directed at the Bull. “Even still, it was quite a thrill to sneak to a secret meeting without anyone noticing. Well, at least anyone with authority, or with grudges against you – which, you can imagine, meant quite a few people in my case. Talent always does rouse most delightful resentment in others.”

The Bull grins. “Talent? Nah, must've been your humility that put them off.”

Dorian laughs, an when he looks at the Bull, there's mirth in his eyes. “Possibly. I _am_ a delightful person, after all.”

It's easy to picture: younger Dorian, conscious of his power – no, _embracing_ his power – and taking his talent for granted. Not bothering to hide it even a little, always striving for better if only to just rub it in the faces of his peers. Yeah, he must've been a phenomenon.

There isn't much the Bull knows about Dorian's life in Tevinter, and much less of his time in the Circles. Would be good to look into it a little; an insight into Tevinter Circle dynamics could come handy one day. If the Qun ever asked.

“You did that often? Creep out for a fuck?”

For someone who guards his private affairs like a mabari guards his master, Dorian speaks pretty openly of his youthful adventures. Shouldn't be surprising, considering his continuous friendship with scandal, if his own words are to be trusted. “Often enough. Relentless high-level studying does tend to get a little tedious without a certain spark of… excitement. For all the ado, demons become boring awfully quickly. One would much rather confront templars to get out for a bit. Not that they ever provided as much challenge as an illusion thereof.”

“Your templars are crap at their job if they never managed to stop a snotty apprentice.”

Dorian snorts, like the Bull just voiced a particularly distasteful joke. “I am the scion of House Pavus. Do you think a _templar_ would stop me if I wanted to leave my quarters? Please do not mistake Tevinter Circles for Southern ones, Iron Bull. Ours aren't cages.”

The word catches the Bull's attention, and he lets the rest slide. “ _Your_ quarters? I thought apprentices shared.”

“Some did. Well. Most did. As I said, I was the scion of House Pavus. Influential Houses and the most distinguished students are granted their own premises. As it happens, I had both the privilege and the talent.”

And that's it – when it clicks.

The Bull should have seen it sooner for what it is. There never was any great scheme behind Dorian's nightly escapades. He's simply not used to sharing his space with other people. Now that the Bull sees it, it's so obvious that he'd like to smack himself for not realising it earlier – and still it's not surprising that he didn't, because he himself has spent most of his life sharing his space with multiple people. It's always been practical, safe, and necessary. It's always been a norm.

Dorian crosses his arms and peers at him, when he's too slow to respond. “You seem awfully interested in the topic. Am I being subjected to covert Ben-Hassrath interrogation techniques? 'Dear Iron Bull, remember to ask Dorian about his sleeping arrangements in Circles, and, while you're at it, don't forget to inquire after the amount of time he spent, quite literally, fucking around.' Was that about right? Did I forget anything?”

Despite himself, the Bull can't not laugh at Dorian's impersonation. It does kinda remind him of one of his more pedantic superiors back in Par Vollen. “No, you got it. Nah, you brought it up yourself earlier, remember?”

“Ah, well. I do so love talking about myself.”

That's both true and complete bullshit. Dorian does love the sound of his own voice, but when he speaks, he rarely _says_ anything about himself, if it's not to compliment his own person. Like that he actually _can't fucking sleep in a shared tent_.

A loud noise from somewhere within the structures of the building puts an end to their loitering and the Bull's musings. It's followed by a deafening rumble of a large body of water crashing free.

“I think that did something,” they hear the boss yell from downstairs, followed by Cassandra's _You think?_

Dorian tosses the old note he's been fiddling with over his shoulder and sighs. “Wonderful. I can hardly contain my curiosity about whether we are going to puddle to this rift through knee-deep mud or shovel our way there underground. At least tonight we'll be sleeping in our new, well-deserved keep. With dry rooms and proper fireplaces, I hope, provided we don't drown along the way or get ripped in pieces by demons.”

“Hey, it's nothing we haven't handled before. Doubt we'll even break a sweat,” the Bull says and turns for the stairs.

“I'll hold you to that.”

When they go out, a dragon flies over their heads.

X

 


	3. Emprise du Lion

The thing is, the Bull really likes snow. He hadn't seen any until he first ventured to the Free Marches years ago, and he hadn't realised there are different kinds of snow until he spent a winter in Ferelden. The slushy snow north of the Waking Sea is fun, but it's fascinating how powdery snow gets when it's cold enough. The best thing though? When after a milder period it gets cold again, and the slushy snow freezes so that there's a harder surface that crunches in a very satisfying way when stepped on, and the leg sinks into the fluffy snow underneath.

He also likes the bite of crisp air on his skin, especially when they get hot and sweaty in battle. Though, yeah, fighting in deep snow gets heavier by shit-ton, and it always gets to his ankle afterwards, but the blood of their enemies looks pretty bad-ass on the white surface, so worth it. Also:

“Mountains. Cold. 'Let's bring Dorian.'”

The Bull grins. It's not the first time Dorian's seen snow, because _Skyhold_ , but it's the first time he's got to spend more than one, or tops two days camping in it. They are heading to meet Hawke and Warden Loghain on the Western Approach, but are detained in Emprise du Lion until the business in Sharnia is sorted. They cleared Suledin Keep from Red Templars that day, and now the boss's gone to free the townsfolk from the mines. Poor guy; the rest of them who fought at the Keep are left in camp to rest and recover, but Cadash's got to go on to finish the business. At least he's got a fresh team with him – Vivienne, Solas, and Sera will have his back – and Cadash himself isn't a stranger for tough missions. Maybe he doesn't have a pretty face or the skills for diplomacy, but he's got the guts and the mindset to push through a mountain of shit if he has to, frozen or not. The Bull will give him that.

Not all of them deal with the circumstances as practically as the boss, though: Varric's made his stance clear, and Dorian's practically declared a war against winter. It's not that the Bull enjoys other people's misery, but he's got to admit that Dorian's personal feud with snow is kind of hilarious.

He sits heavily on a log beside Dorian and stretches his arms towards fire. “What's the matter? Not enough slaves around to rub your footsies?”

Dorian stops his efforts to get the snow out of the hood of his cloak and spares him a glare that's both vehement and withering, and is it wrong to feel like it's a personal reward? “My _footsies_ are freezing, thank you.”

“No slaves,” Cole turns to tell them, from where he's trying to help Varric with their dinner for the evening. “Not after that, not after father -”

“Yes, thank you, that's quite enough, Cole,” Dorian interjects before the kid gets out of hand. “I believe we had an agreement about sightseeing in my head.”

“Yes. Sorry. I was just trying to -”

“To help, yes, I know. It's all right.”

“Don't worry, kid. You're trying.” Varric pats Cole's arm. “Just, uh, keep trying more.”

They've all been made more or less aware of Dorian's unexpected confrontation with his father, but far as the Bull knows, not by Dorian himself. Only the boss and probably Leliana know the whole deal, and the rest of them have been given just a vague picture of what happened in the Redcliffe tavern, and, more importantly, in Qarinus some years earlier. But as long as Dorian's not really comfortable with them knowing, best not make it a public topic.

Besides. It's too good an opportunity for, “Hey. Hey Dorian. You seemed to shiver a little a moment back. Were you… _Cole'd_?”

The pained sound Dorian makes feels like yet another reward. Varric laughs, though. His books are kind of crap when it comes to plausibility, but at least he's got the mind for a good joke.

“That was atrocious,” says Cassandra, who enters the camp arms full of chopped firewood. Still, she's smiling. The Bull's pretty sure she's got a secret love of puns. She's got to, if she likes Varric's stuff.

“Now, Seeker.” Varric turns to give her the bowl for broth, before helping himself to it. “That was a good line. I might even steal it and write it into the next chapter of Shields, and you can't dislike it there.” He winks at the Bull and Dorian.

“Be quiet, dwarf,” she responds, but seems like they've found a shaky truce after their spat about Hawke. They aren't friendly, exactly, but since the boss made Cassandra's love for romance novels general knowledge, Varric's had one over her – something that he's not yet tired of bringing up. He should watch himself though; the Seeker's temper might prove stronger than her interest in the story.

She fills her own bowl and goes to the other side of the fire to eat. Dorian follows her from the corner of his eyes, and, when he's filled his own bowl, he settles next to Varric with the face of man who's going to deliver the punchline of the Age.

“So, Varric, are you and Cassandra..?”

Varric actually chokes on his own broth, and the Bull can't help laughing aloud. Good on Dorian – it takes something to surprise a storyteller in whose books every new page takes an unexpected turn.

“What? No! Why would you even ask that?”

Dorian regards him with a curious expression. “Truly? Bizarre.”

“Just because two people dislike each other doesn't mean they're about to kiss, Sparkler.”

“Not according to your books.”

“I'm right here,” Cassandra interjects sharply from where she's sitting.

Dorian smiles widely at her. “See? She's right there. What are you waiting for?”

Varric throws him a sly look. “What are you?”

That seems to throw Dorian off the track a bit. “Pardon?”

“Well, according to your logic you're about to kiss, let's see, Blackwall, Solas, and Tiny here, to begin with.”

Shit, the Bull's got no idea of where it's all going, but he's _in_ for it.

“I believe the logic we're discussing here is yours,” Dorian returns calmly, but it looks a bit too practised to be truly indifferent. “Besides, I'm afraid you are mistaking the quality of the dislike in question.”

“Oh, just Tiny then?” Varric asks and winks at the Bull.

Dorian sighs loudly. “Now you're just being insufferable on purpose.”

To be honest, the same argument could be used against Dorian himself, too, but the Bull's not going to bring it up now. “Hey, in case he's right, my door's always open,” he says instead, and it's a surprise that it _isn't_ a surprise how much he means it. If Dorian were willing, shit, the Bull could work all kinds of things from there.

“Maker spare me of you two,” Dorian says, raising his eyes to the sky.

“I agree,” Cassandra mutters.

“Just saying, Sparkler,” Varric says to Dorian when they've eaten and begun clearing the camp of their plates and cups. “A friendly advice: don't bullshit the bullshitter.”

The Bull laughs and smacks Varric's shoulder. Dorian only glares at them both with his altus look, only a little undermined by the big pot and their dishes in his arms, and retreats out of the camp – it's his turn on the cleaning duty.

Varric rubs his shoulder and shrugs at the Bull. “No need to thank me if he does come and kiss you.”

Not likely, especially not on the road; if Dorian will ever come to him, it'll probably be in Skyhold, in more private environment. Still, won't hurt to continue with the open-tent policy, either.

The boss won't be back before morning, so they don't bother changing their sleeping arrangements: Varric with Cole (though the kid's disappeared on them again, probably healing hurts in Sharnia or whatever it is he does), Dorian with Cassandra, and the Bull alone, since Solas's with Cadash. It's the Bull's turn to sit the first watch, but.

“Hey, Seeker,” he calls, when Cassandra goes for her and Dorian's tent. “Care to switch watches? You've got the third one, after Dorian, right?”

She halts and looks at him, brows creeping together. Damn, the camp fire's good for her cheekbones. “I don't mind switching,” she says slowly. “Bull, are you all right?”

He shrugs. “I'm good. Could use some shut-eye before my watch though. The ankle's been giving me shit after today's fight.”

She can probably detect his little side-step from the truth, but doesn't comment on it. She's good at that, not asking questions about what she doesn't consider her business. Instead she settles for the first watch, and the Bull ducks into his own tent.

He hears Dorian return to the camp soon after, cleaned bowls clattering in the pot. The clattering stops when Dorian realises everybody's retreated for the night, but even though he lowers his voice, the Bull can hear him talking to Cassandra.

“I was under the impression that you had the third watch today?”

“We traded turns with Bull.”

“I see.”

Then there's some shuffling, and the camp falls into relative silence.

The Bull's been doing that lately, trading watches every now and then, if possible. He's been paying more attention to Dorian after his realisation in Crestwood, and noticed that the times when Dorian doesn't escape his tent are mostly when he's alone in it – when his tent-partner's got the first watch. He's not sure if Dorian's aware of his background machinations – the Bull's tried to be subtle – but if he is, he hasn't acknowledged it in any way. Either way, it seems to be working; sometimes Dorian looks a bit less tired when the Bull's meddled with the watch turns.

If Dorian hasn't noticed, Madam Vivienne has, and it took only one raised eyebrow from her to make the Bull feel oddly guilty. Which is irrational, because he's not favouring Dorian over anyone else in their party. All he's doing is watching his team mate's back, because none of them needs that scene from the Hinterlands repeating. It's simple: if Dorian's not rested, the bigger the risk he, and, by extension, the rest of their team is subjected to in battle. It's all about working together, not about individuals. The Bull would do the same for anyone. So the fact that he _likes_ to do it for Dorian is convenient but beside the point.

He should just do good on his excuse to Cassandra and get some sleep before his watch. No use in dwelling on self-evident matters.

Problem is, he's not really tired. He's learnt to gradually succumb to sleep along the years on Seheron, but he's not really up to it now – the brain's too active. Maybe he should start drafting a report for Par Vollen. Not really much to say until they reach the Western Approach, but -

Someone speaks in a hushed voice – Cassandra. There's a soft answer – Dorian's – and then steps going away from the camp.

For fuck's sake. What's the guy doing? If the Bull's read the signs wrong, if it's not about sharing the tent after all, he's really slipping bad. But if he's right, how deep do Dorian's issues run, whatever they are, if he _still can't sleep_?

Well, it's none of his business. He' arranged an opportunity, and it's up to Dorian to take it or leave it. The Bull should just write that report. Put down something about Suledin Keep and giants infected by red lyrium, mention how the stuff seems to affect mages even without them touching it, because Dorian…

Damn it.

He scrambles up and out of his tent, and is greeted by Cassandra's raised eyebrows.

“I'll just take a walk,” he answers her unasked question.

“I take it your ankle is better then?” It's not a barb, because Cassandra's smiling at him knowingly when she says it. Besides, she spares him from answering and nods at the thin tree-line. “He went to the lake.”

That obvious, huh? “Thanks.”

He leaves the camp and follows the track in snow. The snow around is pretty deep, but there's been enough walking to Sharnia and back to stomp if not a real path, then at least an easy trail to avoid getting boots full of cold. Camping uphill a good distance from Sharnia had been a Discussion, but eventually they all agreed in varying measures that burdening the already struggling town with their accommodation was not in Inquisition's interests. Still, the Bull has never seen the boss, ma'am, and Dorian so fiercely on the same side of an argument before.

The night is clear, so the Bull can detect Dorian already from the top of the hill. Dorian's standing on the frozen lake, either fire or some sort of wisp in his hands, apparently trying to uncover a patch of ice by lazily kicking the snow blanket. They've cleared the Red Templars and the rifts in the immediate area, but still, a little irresponsible to go alone to remote areas and then create light to make sure any potential enemies can spot you from a distance.

He sees Dorian glance his way once as he clambers down the hill, but otherwise he doesn't acknowledge the Bull's presence until he nearly slips on the ice. The Bull's boots are sturdy and hold on slippery surfaces pretty well, but the metallic studs in the sole of his left boot, the ones that tighten the brace around his ankle, make him nearly slide into a split when he steps on the ice. Shit, he's got to be careful with that, find a solution; that same slip nearly cost him his head on the stairs in Suledin Keep that same day.

“Hey,” he greets when he reaches Dorian, only some ten steps from the bank.

Dorian doesn't turn to him. “Can you imagine,” he says slowly, looking down at the cleared spot of ice and holding his flame like it'd help him see through its blackness, “Can you imagine that beneath our feet is a deep, black body of water. Gallons and gallons of water. Should the ice crack, or melt...”

Yeah, good thing Dorian realises that ice _can_ melt, considering the flame sitting on his palm. The Bull glances at it cautiously.

Dorian finally raises his eyes at the Bull, and he looks like he's standing on the verge of something that his mind can't quite grasp. “I'm standing on _water_ ,” he says helplessly, like it should be impossible, like a frozen lake was an abnormality.

“Uh, yeah. That what happens when it's cold. Water freezes.”

Dorian looks back down and tests the ice with a cautious stomp of his boot. When it doesn't crack, he does it again, harder. “Fascinating!”

He takes a few more steps away from the shore almost daringly. And this, the Bull thinks with sudden, strangely fierce affection, this is the same guy who helped develop fucking _time magic_.

“I've never seen anything like this,” Dorian explains and turns to him. The almost childish fascination has disappeared from his face, like he's finally truly realised that he's not alone. “Not in this proportion. Naturally I have seen ice and walked on it before, but never when it's on top of an enormous mass of water. How cold does it have to be for an actual lake to freeze solid? And still it's apparently not cold enough for us to be allowed to spend the night somewhere _warm_ _inside._ ”

“You've seen a frozen lake, in Haven,” the Bull reminds him, mostly to avoid a possible argument by taking Dorian's mind off the fact that the Bull had been firmly against staying in the town.

“Yes, well, one does tend to pay less attention to local attractions when chased by an angry army of Venatori, lead by some nobody darkspawn magister. A wasted opportunity to regard the wonders of nature, I admit, although the crushing avalanche was rather breath-taking.”

An avalanche followed by a blizzard is some way to get introduced to snow, sure. Probably wasn't a pleasant introduction, considering Dorian was wearing only light leathers at the time and dragging a half-dead chancellor ass-deep in snow. The Bull kept an eye on him then, and, looking back, it had been precisely that picture that convinced him Dorian was no spy; the Chancellor was a lost cause, but still Dorian hauled his dying ass on his shoulder when none of the man's own people would. Didn't even complain, probably because at the time he was about as liked as the Chancellor among the townsfolk, and any whining would have got him kicked out all the way back to Redcliffe.

Now it's different. Now Dorian's liked enough for people to mostly tolerate his endless critique of... pretty much everything.

Or almost everything. “Yeah, anyway. Why did you come here?”

Dorian's gaze turns scrutinising. “There you go again, policing the suspicious 'Vint. I must say I do wonder if you extend the courtesy to everyone else in Inquisition as well, or if I'm simply a special case. I'll bet my money on the second option – standing out has always been my speciality, after all.”

Dorian always falls into yapping when he's cornered or uncomfortable, but this time he sort of hits home. No one else in their party has given the Bull much cause to pay particular attention to their habits – and he would, given reason – and it's easier to focus on Dorian than on anyone else. The guy practically absorbs attention wherever he goes. A useful trait, when any sort of distraction is needed. They should use that in Halamshiral, if Josephine gets them invitations; she probably will.

“If you absolutely must know,” Dorian continues, “I simply fancied a walk. This cold will probably be the end of me, but I'm not petty enough to deny that there's some beauty in a view like this.”

“You, fancied a walk? Aw, I've got to tell Varric.”

“Don't you dare, I will hear no end of it.” Then Dorian sighs and crosses his arms. “Bull. I'm not an all-seeing Ben-Hassrath, but neither am I a witless fool. Don't think I haven't noticed what you've been doing with our sleeping arrangements. Is there any particular reason to your meddling?”

The Bull shrugs. “I've got a theory.”

“A theory! Am I your very own study material on 'Vints, then? Let me help you with that: 'Dorian Pavus: Feeds on the Inquisitor's replenishing soul but prefers wine, enjoys warmth, follows irregular sleeping patterns.'”

“See, this is why I never rely only on the informant's account. That's full of shit. Prefers wine? You totally go for Fereldan ale.”

“Shameless slander! I detest the swill, you only need to ask anyone.”

“You're happy enough to drink it at the Rest.”

“That's only because it's more affordable than anything remotely decent Cabot can supply this far in the mountains.”

It would be easy to fall into the familiar pattern of their banter, but that's not why the Bull followed Dorian. “All right, big guy, I'll grab the bull by the horns, since you wont.” He grins at Dorian's obligatory roll of eyes. “Here's the thing: you don't sleep enough. That fucks with your willpower, which puts you and the whole team in danger. I figured you fall asleep easier when you're alone and thought I'd give a hand, that's all. Could be I'm wrong, but.” He shrugs; he's not wrong.

Dorian studies him for a while, but finally sighs and turns away. The Bull can see the line of tension creeping into his spine even under all the furs he's wearing. “Ah.”

“Nothing for the Qun,” the Bull says to reassure him. “Just me.” Just him. But it's for the team – it's not _for_ him.

Dorian glances back at him then, a little guarded but with a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, aren't you a spirit of goodwill! Perhaps it's you who has been – and these are your own words – Cole'd?”

His shoulders relax at the Bull's bellowing laughter, and he summons a wisp on his palm – when did he even put out the flame? Dorian's still not facing the Bull, and he's absently moving the wisp from hand to hand much in the same way that Rocky fiddles with his grenades when he's playing for time, or when Cassandra weighs the sword always in her left hand when she's collecting her thoughts. Or when Dalish calls for some casual magic to play with in hopes of deflecting the question.

Dorian doesn't deflect, this time. He sighs and extinguishes the light in his fist. “Well then, it will please you to hear that you are, essentially, right.” He throws a glance at the Bull, but, when he doesn't gloat or mock him, continues with his practised casualness. “You'll probably find this amusing, but it's not really practised in Tevinter. Before you get any ideas, I'm talking about sleeping with people, as in the literal sense of sleeping. I don't know how it is among the soporati, but I don't know any altus back home who wouldn't have a private bedroom.”

He crouches as he speaks, and draws with deft fingers a glyph on the ice before his feet. When he's finished, the glyph flashes blue light and disappears, leaving a faintly glowing pattern of magical ice on top of the natural. Dorian straightens and hides his hands in thick gloves again, turning face-on to the Bull. “I've never shared my sleeping space with anyone before coming to South, to tell you the truth. When one's family is rich enough, there are enough private rooms for any number of family members.”

The Bull remembers their conversation in Crestwood, and supplies, “You had your own room in Circles, too.”

Dorian's smile is a little rueful. “You really do remember everything people tell you, don't you?”

“Comes with the profession.”

“So I've gathered.”

“Still, doesn't make sense. You told yourself that you spent your years sleeping around.”

“Dear Bull, if by sleeping you meant _actual_ sleeping, then of course not. That hardly was the purpose of those visits. Naturally one would leave before dawn.”

“Shit, how fucked up is Tevinter if you can't even trust a guy you have sex with?” Fucking as a means to achieve a goal of any kind is one thing, but there's no way every one of Dorian's fucks was a honeypot.

“Trust?” Dorian shakes his head. “What, do you think I escape my tent every night because I _distrust_ you all?”

For all the Bull knows, he could.

Dorian reads the answer from his silence and scoffs angrily. “Ah, because everything in Tevinter is about blood magic and back-stabbing! Well, I'll have you know it's not about trust, not here, and not back home either. Not really.”

Fair enough. “Yeah? Then what's it about?”

The slightly helpless look is back on Dorian's features. “It… really is just not being alone. Did you know that among the alti one's bedroom is the only place in the entire Imperium where there are no eyes upon you, hostile or friendly? My parents sleep in separate chambers. Even Alexius and Livia had their own bedrooms, and they loved each other. How _do_ you sleep when every breath, or turn, or… unbecoming bodily sound is heard and noted?”

“That what it's about? Trust me, big guy, no one's counting your farts.”

Dorian glowers at him. “I'm not expecting anyone to. What I'm saying is that it's terribly distracting, having another person in such an intimate space with yourself. How can you sleep when they might not? You never know what goes through their mind when yours is unaware.” He creates and immediately extinguishes a little flame in his palm again, flexing his fingers. Why hasn't the Bull noted that habit before? Or doesn't Dorian do it with others around? “Well! Such is the Southern way, apparently. I suppose I could be persuaded to see the charm of sharing a tent in these Maker-forsaken mountains, if I squint.”

He does squint, at the Bull. “You can write _that_ to Par Vollen, if you like. The evil magister tries to adapt to rustic Southern ways. It will make a fine comedy, I wager, if your people do theatre.”

Shit, the whole Ben-Hassrath thing must really get to Dorian more than the Bull thought, if he keeps bringing it up all the time.

“Relax, I'm not writing about you back home.” Not personal details, anyhow. Nothing general either, not for a while now. Come to think of it, last time he mentioned Dorian in a report was to strike through his name on the list of potential threats to the Inquisition.

He pushes the thought away. “Might tip Varric though.”

“You absolute scoundrel, this is the second time within half an hour when you threaten me with him.”

“Hey, if something works...” Then he lets his smile drop. “Seriously though, I'll keep my mouth shut about this, if you want.” It's not the Bull's business go spreading private information about Dorian, especially when Dorian himself has chosen to keep it secret from everyone.

Everyone but the Bull, now. He chose to tell the Bull about something that makes him uncomfortable, which, in Tevinter, is as good as handing a knife to another person and then turning your back to them.

Dorian trusts him.

“I've always shared my space with others,” the Bull tells him – he doesn't want Dorian to feel like he holds anything over him. “First with other kids, then with my unit, in the barracks, and with my own guys. Actually, having my own room in Skyhold is a bit of a novelty.”

“From what I hear, you continue the trend of sharing in Skyhold as well.”

“Yeah? Could share with you, if you like.”

“You are impossible,” Dorian says, but there's something fond there, in the quirk of his lips.

The Bull raises his hands, palms up. “Hey, doesn't have to be sex. I'm good for just sharing the space if you want to practise that with someone trustworthy in a safe setting, no expectations, nothing funny. We're going to be on the road a lot, so might as well get used to it.”

Dorian throws his head back and laughs. It's a nice sound, his laughter. A damn fine sight, too. “The Ben-Hassrath offering safety for the Tevinter mage! Maker, I hope my father hears that. To practise, he says!” He sobers up a little and looks at the Bull, but he's still smiling, and even in darkness, there's a twinkle of something in his eyes. “You _are_ trustworthy, never think that I doubt that. Well, any longer, at least, but perhaps my initial suspicion was understandable. I believe I behaved somewhat ungratefully earlier, and a thank you is in order. You are an oddly considerate man, Bull.”

The last bit comes like an afterthought, and the soft sincerity of it catches the Bull with clothing tangled in his horns. Since when has Dorian taken to calling him simply Bull? He's always used his full name, or no name at all, only some descriptive, though not always flattering words. It's kind of sweet, to be honest, this glimpse of Dorian behind his bluster, but it's also mildly disconcerting.

It doesn't last – Dorian wraps himself back into his mantle of an altus. “Well. We ought to get back to camp, lest I freeze more than my footsies.”

He didn't say yes to the Bull's suggestion about sharing his tent, so probably not the time to tell him that the Bull could keep him warm, footsies and all. But he didn't say no, either.

Maybe, the Bull thinks as he sits by the fire, huddled under the same blanket with Dorian in silent company for his watch, maybe that's just Dorian's own way of leaving a door open.

X

 


	4. The Western Approach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, with the final chapter! Thanks for sticking with me. :)

Given choice, the Bull would take snow over sand any given day. Sand gets everywhere: in his boots; in his pants; under his harness, where it chafes at the skin. That's not even so bad yet, he's got a tough skin, but the sand also gets in the tiny grooves of his horns, and once it's there, it's impossible to clear out without a decent amount of water. Which they don't have, because _desert_. At least when snow gets in places, it melts away. Sure, the cold wetness isn't much fun either, but at least it doesn't dry his horns so that they itch like crap and probably crumble away by the time they're done with the Western Approach.

Still, that, too, will be totally worth it if they manage to finish their current objective.

“You all right, Tiny?” Varric asks, when the Bull breaks into another coughing fit and interrupts his story.

“Sand went down the wrong way,” he explains and pounds at his chest a few times, like that'd help.

“Yeah, anyway,” Cadash cuts in, impatient, “What did you do to them?”

The boss didn't use to pay much attention to Varric when they weren't gambling, but he instantly hit it off with Hawke – unsurprising, with them both being fed up with standing in the eye of a shitstorm and having to be there anyway. So now that Hawke's off with Loghain to gather more information on the Adamant Fortress, Cadash drags Varric along on their missions for more stories about Kirkwall. Plenty of time for that, now that the whole thing with blood magic and demon summoning and that asshole Erimond is dealt with, and they're stuck in Griffon Wing Keep until the Inquisition's reinforcements arrive. The shit in the Ritual Tower rubbed them all the wrong way, so the boss's looking to unwind, which, this time – and this is why the Bull wouldn't even complain if he lost his horns to a sandstorm – means _dragon-baiting._ Now if only they'd find some quillbacks to gut for the lures.

“We killed them, of course,” Varric answers to Cadash. “And their seven friends who we ran into in the next room. Hawke's good at killing people. You two have that in common.”

“You certainly keep implying that enemies just kept dropping out of thin air every turn you took,” says Dorian, who's not happy about the sand thing, either, and to whom Erimond seems to have gotten on a more personal level than to the rest of them; he's been edgy since the moment they stepped out of the Keep that morning. “If there's even a kernel of truth in that, how are any of you alive at all?”

“They weren't very strong enemies. No match for Hawke, anyhow.”

“Hey, where's the fun in that?” the Bull interjects. “If there's no challenge it's just like, I don't know, sweeping the streets from rubbish.” Did plenty of that on Seheron. Not that there was a lack for _challenge_ there. But fuck, the Bull could've gone without that kind of challenge. Not that it mattered; it wasn't about what he'd have liked, and besides, what he learnt on Seheron made his ass near unstoppable in the South. With the article and all.

Varric gives him a conspiratorial look. “Well, there _was_ one fight that almost made my book one third shorter. Incidentally it was against your previous Arishok. Hawke challenged him to a one-on-one fight.”

Yeah, the Bull's heard of it, just from a different source. Better not to delve into that too deeply now. “He had some guts,” he admits instead. No Arishok ever has been a weak or even an average warrior, so for a mage fighter, who works from a distance, the duel should have been lethal. Tells something about Hawke that it wasn't.

Varric shrugs at him. “Your Arishok? Sure he did. Hawke did have quite a reputation, after all.”

He's clever, that dwarf. Crap books or not, Varric could trick words themselves into believing they are something else. The Bull should let him write a report to Par Vollen in his stead some time, see how his superiors would like it.

His laughter turns into choking again – this time, they've edged too near to the sulphur pits.

Luckily, Cadash isn't enough of a mule to try and risk it; he turns back and wistfully glares at some quillbacks roaming in the poisonous area. “Guess we got to get some soldiers get to work here. Is there anything in this sodding desert that we can do without the idiots from Skyhold?” he mutters, then spits into the sand and turns to where they saw quillbacks two days earlier. “So Varric, the deal with Hawke and Arishok?”

“Well, Hawke hadn't thought it exactly through that time. The Arishok turned out to be surprisingly resistant to magic. There was somewhat less fighting and more running involved than I might have given to understand in the _Tale of the Champion._ ”

“So you do invent half of what happens,” Dorian mutters vehemently. He's been too quiet for his usual self the whole day, like when he's genuinely tired. They've got each their own room at the keep, so it shouldn't be the lack of sleep that bugs Dorian now. Erimond, probably, or… or just the sand that seems to be sticking to the mouth of his waterskin, when the Bulls turns to glance at him.

“If Varric pulled the whole book out of his arse I'd still take the shit in Kirkwall over this fuckery any day,” Cadash crumbles, still glaring at the sulphur pits as they skirt around them.

“You say that now. Have you ever been to Kirkwall?”

“Are you shitting me? I was in the Carta. Could say the Hanged Man was my home for two months. Well, the cellar, anyhow. Not that the rest of the shithole was any better.”

“Charming,” Dorian mutters.

“Still better than what we have in Skyhold. Herald's Rest? What sod thought that'd make a good name for a tavern?”

“Could be worse,” Varric argues. “At least it's not Andraste's Bosom.”

“Now that just sounds like a brothel,” Dorian snorts. “For templars.”

Varric considers. “How about Maker's Side then? Or something still holier?”

“Any holier than that and it will be named after Mother Giselle.”

“Not funny. They might even do it,” the boss says, and that seems to be the opening Dorian's been waiting the whole day, because:

“What _I_ think isn't funny is that we're wading through sand, hunting for quillbacks to collect their _intestines_ , when we could be at the keep this very moment, drinking wine and leaving all this morbid bone-gathering to someone else.”

“Hey, you want to fight a dragon, you've got to make some effort for it,” the Bull tells him. “It's like unwrapping a gift.”

Dorian glowers at him. “My _point_ exactly! I don't want to fight a dragon. Do tell, which part of me, exactly, looks like I'd like to fight a dragon? I understand that we must if they attack us, but to deliberately _bait_ one? It's madness!”

“Don't worry, Sparkler, I'm pretty sure she _will_ attack us,” Varric offers, and gets a vicious glare for his trouble.

“Consider this scientific research,” Cadash tells Dorian. “You like that shit.”

“My scientific research doesn't usually get me killed.”

“Yeah, it only messes with time and raises the dead. Real safe,” says the Bull, not realising his mistake in time.

“I do no _raise_ the dead. Necromancy is all about -” And then Dorian gets into a rant about what necromancy _is_ all about, and Cadash punches the Bull's hip, hard, because there's no stopping Dorian once he gets it on about magic. The Bull stops listening after the first few minutes when he realises he doesn't understand any of it, and anyway, he'd much rather see the enemies he puts down _stay_ down, thanks.

“And he calls bone-gathering morbid,” Varric mutters to him under his breath.

Dorian's mood improves considerably in the same proportion as the Bull's drops when the draconologist directs them to some Tevinter ruins to chase an ancient book. Of course there'd be fucked up time magic, of course there'd be demons, and _of course_ Dorian has to gloat about it. (“ _Well, Bull, if one wants to fight a dragon, one must make some effort for it._ ”) The joke's on him, though, because when they finally put the ruins behind them, the dragon fight is still ahead.

“I need at least one bottle of Antivan red to accept the fact that I dedicated this entire day to intestine-gathering for a dragon lure,” Dorian, ignoring the fact that there hasn't really been any _actual_ intestine-gathering, declares as they head back for the keep.

“Sorry to spoil it for you, but the keep's dry on alcohol until that sodding unit arrives from Skyhold,” Cadash retorts. He's pissed because neither the draconologist, nor Dorian could decipher the ancient Tevene in the book, and now they've got to tell Josephine to ask around for someone who can.

“Not if you play your cards right,” Dorian answers cryptically.

“I'll take that as a challenge for a round of Wicked Grace,” Varric joins in.

Cadash begins explaining him the alternative rules which they used in the Carta, so the Bull slows down until he walks beside Dorian. “You've got something to share, big guy?” he asks good-naturedly.

“We shall see,” replies Dorian with a sly smile, and that's the end of it.

The Bull doesn't expect to hear anything more about the hinted alcohol, but well after they've all lost two rounds of Wicked Grace to the boss – because his Carta rules made no sense other than what Cadash wanted them to, and that changed every time anyone else placed a card on the table – and retired each to their rooms, there's a knock on his door, and Dorian saunters in without waiting for the Bull to open it, a bottle in his hand.

“Oh,” he says, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“It's my room,” the Bull answers needlessly and instinctively positions his body so that the report he's been penning can't be seen from the door. It's not one of those that he'd leave in a dead drop Red doesn't know about – he hasn't been writing much of those recently – but habits stick hard. He never writes his reports in the presence of other people.

The movement is casual, but Dorian's apparently practised enough in casually meaningful gestures to note it and take it for what it is. When he speaks, the light tone of his voice doesn't change, but he lingers at the door, holding it slightly ajar, hand resting on the handle. “I recall there being some talk of open doors. If, however, I'm interrupting something, I apologise and leave you to it.”

Shit, no. Dorian came to his room. Dorian specifically sought him out. Dorian, who believes that a bedroom is some sanctuary of privacy. If the Bull turns him away now, he won't find Dorian at his doorstep ever again. The report can wait; he doubts Par Vollen burns to read about dragon lures, anyway.

“Nah, always got time for 'Vints.”

The Bull can't point exactly what, but something in Dorian's posture eases a little. He pushes the door closed, eyes on the Bull and lips tugging into a smirk. “Not to chop me in pieces, I hope. I did promise to share, after all.” He holds up the bottle – not Antivan wine, but Grey Warden whiskey.

To be precise, he didn't promise anything, but the Bull's not going to complain. Still, he'd have thought that if Dorian ever decided to take up his offer, it'd be in Skyhold, where he could retreat to the privacy of his own room and wouldn't necessarily have to face the Bull the next morning if something didn't work for him. There's no such luxury on the road, where they have to work in a team whether things went awkward between them or not. Not that there's any reason to expect for things to get awkward, but Dorian seems the kind of guy who likes to have the back door open. But now the Bull realises he's been wrong. If bedrooms are considered that private in Tevinter, the bar to come to the Bull's would be much higher in Skyhold. Here, in a desert, rooms are temporary and impersonal. Easily approached, easily left. So is it sex then, or simply company that Dorian wants? Honestly, the Bull's good with either, but it bugs him a little that he can't tell straight away.

Looks like Dorian doesn't know why he's there, either. He hovers near the door, and the Bull realises he ought to say something.

“Yeah, sure. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestures around the room and belatedly realises there isn't much to get comfortable on; he's occupying the only stool, and aside that, the room only has a wobbly table and a bed.

Dorian makes a show of running his gaze across the whole room before stopping on the bed, and the arch of his brow tells the Bull that his message didn't get across the way he meant it.

“Straight to business, I see,” Dorian says and crosses his arms. He doesn't move.

“Hey, only if you want it,” the Bull says with a decidedly casual shrug. “Otherwise it's just the limited facilities. You can sit on the floor if you like.”

Doesn't look like Dorian likes. He walks to the bed and settles in the foot of it, back to the wall, before kicking his boots off and drawing his legs up on the mattress. He rests his arms languidly on his knees, the bottle hanging idly from his fingers. It's not entirely full; Dorian must've had a taste already. Is that why he's in the Bull's room now?

“I must say,” he says, in the same tone as when he first entered the room, the one that indicates there's going to be a lot of dancing around the real topic, “that my disappointment in my countrymen rather intensifies. One would think that impossible, considering they already serve an ancient darkspawn, but I suppose we ' _Vints_ do love so to exceed the expectations. Still, no self-respecting Tevinter would settle with this level of asceticism, deserts or not. Then again, no truly self-respecting Tevinter would bow to a relic of a magister, so there is that.”

The Bull goes to join him on the bed, leaving enough space between himself and Dorian to let the mage decide whether he wants any contact or not. Granted, the guy's never straightforward with what he wants, but he's got to learn to make the first push sometime. “Hope your stuff's not too fancy to drink from the bottle. Haven't got any cups for you.”

Dorian demonstrates how much he cares by plopping the cork out and taking a swig from the bottle. With a grimace, he hands it to the Bull. “I suppose that since we are in the middle of nowhere, we might as well act like savages and consume fine whiskey directly from the bottle. It won't even be much of a step-down after gathering intestines the whole day.”

The Bull laughs and takes a gulp of the whiskey. It burns in a nice, bitter way on his tongue, and warms his chest. “You're pretty fixated on those intestines, big guy.”

“That's because our Inquisitor, who, I might add, is quite possibly currently the most powerful man in Southern Thedas, decides that intestine-gathering is well worth his – and our – time.” Dorian leans in to take the bottle from the Bull, and doesn't lean quite as much away.

“Hey, you got better ideas of what to do in a desert?” Besides, those intestines _are_ needed for a dragon lure, but Dorian's made clear he doesn't really appreciate the fact.

“Yes. Remain in the keep and let the soldiers handle the trivial matters.”

“And do what, exactly?”

“Why, indulge in excessive drinking, for one.”

The Bull pries the bottle from his fingers and holds it up for inspection – half of its contents is gone already. “Hm. Pretty sure there's not enough for _excessive_ here.”

The room's air changes immediately and palpably. “In that case,” Dorian drawls, and turns his body full on towards the Bull, “We must settle on the second best option.”

So. Sex, after all. Sex is easy, straightforward, a natural itch, and this is as close as Dorian's ever been to asking for anything. Yeah, the Bull can work with that. He sure as fuck can work with that. “That so? What's the second best option?”

“You aren't one quarter of the fool you like to play, Bull. Take a guess.”

Guesses can go wrong, and with Dorian, he wants to get it right. Besides – he'd like to hear it, from Dorian, out in the air. That Dorian _wants_. “Rather you told me, big guy. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, you insufferable man,” Dorian says, vexed, and throws his leg over the Bull's lap, grabs his shoulders, and kisses him.

The Bull can't help it – he grins into Dorian's lips before the mage can deepen the kiss, and puts his palms on Dorian's hips. Keeps them there, no pressure, no intent, simply a weight on Dorian's body. “ _Second_ best, mm?”

Dorian pulls back a little, so that he can properly arch his bow at him, and, yeah. The way he manages to look all imperious while straddled across the Bull's lap goes straight to his dick. “Naturally. So far I've no evidence of a first-place performance.”

A quiet laughter breaks free from the Bull's chest, and he presses his thumbs into Dorian's hips with just a little force. “Here I thought you just wanted to practise sleeping in a shared space, nothing funny.”

“Nothing funny indeed if you intend to simply talk the whole night,” Dorian snaps. His chest is rising and falling more heavily than would be justifiable by a kiss that was barely more than lips pressed against each other, and when the Bull moves his hand up to rest on Dorian's shoulder, thumb brushing his throat, he can feel the mage's frantic heartbeat. Shit, he's excited. He wants it. Him.

His grin widens. “Whole night, huh?”

Dorian hooks two of his fingers under the Bull's harness then, just above where his heart is beating, and presses them into his skin. “I suppose I could be persuaded to remain for the night, to practise, as you put it.” His fingers dig deeper. “Provided, of course, that I'll be too worn out to leave for my own room by the time we are done.”

 _Fuck._ The Bull grabs Dorian's hips and yanks him forward, pulling him hard against his chest and applying more pressure to his grip, this time with full intent. The small sound Dorian gives at that sets the Bull's blood on fire. He meets Dorian's darkened eyes and holds his gaze long enough for Dorian to read all the promises on his face.

“ _Can do.”_

xXx

The early sunlight spills on the bed, but Dorian's still asleep, sprawled on his stomach with his arms tucked under the pillow, back exposed to sunlight – he'll remain like that for a couple of hours longer if he follows the pattern he's set in the past week. His breaths are slow and light, gentle where they tickle the Bull's arm. He looks peaceful in a way the Bull's never seen him look before, not even when they shared a tent in other parts of Thedas. With Dorian's admissions in mind, the Bull has reason to believe that barely anyone, or no one at all, has been presented with this particular picture in years.

And now he's been allowed to see it three times in the course of the past week. The thought leaves and unpleasant feeling worming in his gut.

A diversion in a desert is one thing. Will Dorian come to him also in Skyhold? He hopes so.

And that – that's the source of his unease. _He hopes so._

The Bull's casual about his bed partners. He's happy to provide an answer to a need, and whether or not his partners decide to come back for more, hey, he's good. Sex is one of the basic needs most people have. Sex with the same person, repeatedly, is not – it's a want. And the Bull wants Dorian to come to him, and for him, again.

But he's a Ben-Hassrath. He doesn't _want_ things. Things _happen_ , and the Bull's job is to take them as they are, and work from there. Wanting, or not wanting, is what led him to the re-educators to begin with, when he didn't _want_ to remain on Seheron. He went to them, because in want lie the seeds for selfishness, which leads to abandonment of the Qun, which, in turn, leads to…

Nah. Dorian's a phenomenon of his own when he's in bed with the Bull. Of course the Bull wouldn't mind repeating an experience that's good for everyone involved, and it's Dorian who keeps seeking him out. He simply provides what Dorian wants. What he needs.

The sun rises higher, early as it is, and seeps through the thin curtains, onto the bed and Dorian's copper skin that's partly uncovered in the warmth of the desert and the Bull. He should let him sleep and get up, go run some drills with the soldiers or help them carry water to the kitchen, maybe exchange a word or two with the Knight-Captain, see if anything's up.

Dorian shifts a little and lets out the funny, quiet snort that he makes when his tousled moustache tickles his nose. 

The Bull takes a look at the sun. It's still early, even for him. Far as he knows, they aren't going anywhere that day, and the Knight-Captain's probably not even up yet, anyway; on more than one occasion the man's emerged on the battlements well after Varric, and that's saying something. Nah. There's no need to hurry.

The Bull shifts his hand on the bed a little, so that it brushes against Dorian's side where the sunlight stripes his skin.

For now, he's good where he is.

X

 


End file.
